church. rock music. sex. drugs. you.
all these things are mixed inside,
churning, breathing, oozing seeping.
seeking for that right combo
and you know how you can tell when
ive had the right amount:
my hair.
sometimes its nicely proportionate
you look adorable in peppermint
sometimes it looks like dirty weeds
i was at Wal-Mart yesterday thinking
about how i will turn out as a parent
moms were pussyfooting around with their precious angels
and the dads werent putting up with jack
id say junior hand daddy that baseball bat
are you buying that for us poppa
no im going to beat you better yet
go over to the gun section and get me a single
pump rifle and either you shut up and just
look at the merchandise like good children
or point and scream at what you want
and i will try to shoot your little pointy finger
and if i hit you, well, you lose
but if i miss then i will buy the item
your little heart desires.
i think i’ll have good kids.
i think i’ll raise the type of kids who’ll either
understand all
or grow up planning my death with such detail
and creativity that even i’ll be
proud to have sired them.
born on a whim.
the lightbulb is dim.
shes dancing and smiling and motioning and drinking gin
all the red auras of yesterday are sinking in
grateful dead matriarch smoking dope in peoples park
in oakland its another thing
in chinatown a man named Ding
and you expect me to understand
i do i dont i give a damn
i was aiming at your finger Sally but i picked off
the babies hand the babies hand oh god a doctor
i shot the babies hand
well he was pointing my oldest said
and stinking up and crying, dad
whats fair is fair my girl agreed
the baby nodded and looked at me.